


this is not a true love song

by pearl_o



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Erik Has Feelings, Hot Weather, Hotels, Introspection, Letters, M/M, Post-X-Men: Days of Future Past, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3748555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/pseuds/pearl_o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik writes a letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is not a true love song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pocky_slash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [this is not a true love song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4822733) by [Go_MrCactus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Go_MrCactus/pseuds/Go_MrCactus)



> Back last summer, when pocky_slash was first starting [it doesn’t end, it just wears away](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3069692), I offered, or we agreed, or she decided (which one is lost in the mist of time) that once she finished it, I would write her something in return about the letters post-dofp!Erik sends to Charles. It may have taken four months, but I held up my end of the bargain.

There are three cracks in the ceiling above the hotel bed. Not that any of them are visible at the moment, with the room so dim, the only illumination coming from the city lights that leak in through the window shades--but nonetheless Erik knows they are there, has them memorized after a week in this room. He always sleeps in the same posture: on his back, arms folded across his chest. But he can't say he sleeps well (he never has, but it was better, surely, before his confinement, that seemingly endless span of indistingushable days and nights) and so he's spent more than his fair share of time like this, gazing upwards.

He's not trying to sleep now. There's a sheet of paper in the typewriter that sits on the desk across the room, next to the pile of newspapers he scans every day, marking them up with red pens, half destroying them with scissors, ferreting out every mention of mutants. 

All he's managed to compose so far is the date, and a salutation, stark black ink against the mocking cool white paper. 

_Dear Charles._

There are too many possibilities. Too many ways it could go. Too many wrong turns--if they are not all wrong turns. 

Erik breathes in deeply. He can hear the faint noises of the city in the distance, so many people just as awake as he, even so far past the sunset. Closer, and thus louder, is the steady whirr of the ceiling fan. He has to keep a mental finger on it, for without his powers it clicks and clangs on every rotation, subtly out of joint. He's not entirely sure why he bothers, though, for the fan seems more of a formality than anything else, contributing nothing to make the heat less oppressive.

The heat. It's taken on a character of its own. It is all anyone seems to talk about, when Erik exits the hotel, all he overhears as he passes silently among the people in the streets or the market. _The heat will break soon_ , they all assure each other. _The rain is coming. The heat will break._

They've been saying it since the day he arrived. It hasn't happened yet. 

And yet, Erik doesn't mind the heat, truly. It is, after all, so much better than the alternative. It has been more than thirty years since the bitter winters he remembers, navigating the snow and ice dressed in little better than rags, hungry and desperate--and yet, on occasion, if he doesn't catch himself quickly enough, those memories can seem much too close. He would prefer a hundred tropical summers like this to feeling that chill again.

Erik stretches his powers back out to the keys of the typewriter, stroking along the solid metal. A letter is probably a mistake. He's sent others--three now, or perhaps four, since he last saw Charles, bleeding and angry under the Washington sun. He doesn't know if Charles has read any of them. Perhaps he throws them away, unread. Erik can't say he would be surprised. It's not as if Charles has replied to any of them--but then, Erik is a fugitive still, with nothing like a fixed address. Already he's nearing the point where he should move on from here as well.

The sweat is pooling in the notch of his collarbone, behind his ears, in his armpits, his knees and elbows. The sheets are damp against his legs and back, even through his shorts and singlet. 

He breathes in again, as deep as he can, and then he hears it: the rumble of thunder in the distance. It's a handful of seconds before the lightning follows, brightening the room for a single moment beyond his eyelids, even as the beautiful comfort of the electricty seems to run through his veins.

And then: there it is. The sound of the rain. A trickle, at first, but quickly increasing, until it's practically a downpour.

It's happened after all. The heat has broken.

_Dear Charles_ , Erik thinks, opening his eyes again and staring up at the cracks he can't see. _Dear Charles_.

He reaches out his power, and the steady clack of the typewriter keys begins, a syncopated rhythm against the rain's patter. 

_Yesterday I took refuge in a bookstore, a dusty place off some forgotten side road. I bought a book of poetry there--that will surprise you, I imagine, as you must remember, as I do, the discussions of literature we once indulged in, in earlier days. But there is something in this one I like, and something, too, which I find reminds me of you..._

Erik doesn't stop typing until the page is full. He doesn't sign his name--either of his names--but in the last bit of spaces he closes with _I love you_. He can't remember if he has ever actually said the words out loud to Charles; but some things are easier to say like this, words on paper. Many things, really.

Perhaps he will reread the letter in the morning and tear it to pieces--it is a weakness, and a sentimentality, and he can little afford either. There is so much work left for him to do.

He doubts he will destroy, though, even if it would be wise. Even once this quiet moment is gone, and he forces himself to file away any lingering weariness, or loneliness, tucked it back away, deep where it belongs so he can do all that must be done... He rather thinks he will send it on.

He falls asleep, still listening to the rain against the roof.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [this is not a true love song (the typesetter's remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4236501) by [littledust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust)




End file.
